Taken By the Spy. Cindy Dees

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      Hathaway laughed. “Roger that.”

      Mitch disconnected the call and pocketed the phone. He ducked through the hatch and squinted at the blazing wedge of red melting across the black water to their feet. It shrunk quickly to a narrow slash of red pulsing on the horizon.

      Kinsey was already squinting at the fiery sunset. She commented over her shoulder, “Conditions are good to see the Green Flash tonight.”

      “The Green Flash?”

      “When the sun dips below the horizon, there’s an instant when its light refracts through the maximum thickness of the Earth’s atmosphere and throws off the different colors of the spectrum. Sometimes you can see a flash of green. Legend says it’s good luck to spot it.”

      Her enthusiasm was contagious. And hell, he’d take any luck he could get right about now. He squinted into the last vestiges of the setting sun. For just a second, its final rays turned a brilliant emerald green. And then they winked out. “Hey! There it was!”

      She smiled over at him. “I guess that means you’re gonna have good luck on this trip.” Aww, hell. The princess had dimples. They added a little-girl charm to her bombshell looks that blew him clean away. Damn, damn, damn. He hated blondes. He didn’t trust beautiful women. And he was not attracted to Kinsey Pierpont Hollingsworth!

      Thankfully, his brain kicked back in before too many more seconds passed. Time to talk her into helping him. He forcibly relaxed his shoulders and shrugged, packing as much casual friendliness into his expression as he could. “For what it’s worth, I work in law enforcement. I can’t go into a lot of details, though.”

      “Do you have a badge?”

      He reached for his wallet. “Sort of.” He pulled out his brand, spanking-new Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent ID card in the name of one Mitch Perovski, and handed it to her.

      She examined it carefully, looking from the picture to him a couple times. She held the ID card out to him. “Nice picture. You’re a photogenic guy.”

      Unaccountably, the back of his neck heated up. Every now and then someone made a comment that pierced his current legend and went all the way to the real man. It never failed to catch him off guard.

      Into the suddenly awkward silence, she asked, “What brings you to the sunny Caribbean? You’re a long way from home, sailor.”

      “Cigars.”

      She blinked. Frowned.

      He elaborated. “Cuban cigars.” The papers Zaragosa was supposed to deliver declared him to be a tobacco importer looking for new sources of fine cigars.

      “Ahh. I hear they can be lucrative.”

      He shrugged. “A good box of Cohibas run six hundred bucks. If your father would like a box, I’ll send him some when I get home.”

      “He doesn’t smoke,” she murmured.

      The conversation lagged. He didn’t know what to talk about with a socialite like her. Finally, he said, “Thanks again for saving my life.”

      “No problem.”

      “I’m serious. Thank you.”

      “Any time,” she mumbled, turning away to stare down at the navigation instruments.

      The line of her neck arrested him. It was graceful. Slender. Sensuous. Wisps of hair curled at her nape underneath her short ponytail. What would happen if he breathed warmth across her skin just there? Would she cross her arms to rub away the goose bumps? Turn and melt into his arms? Kiss him into last week?

      She’d kiss him right up to the part where she buried a knife in his back. He had places to go and things to do. A future president to protect. A few assassinations to commit along the way if he had to guess. Nothing out of the ordinary. He did not need a pampered princess like Kinsey Hollingsworth flitting around in his universe, fouling up the works and making him think thoughts he distinctly didn’t want to think. First order of business: use the pretty lady to get into Cuba.

      Next order of business: get rid of her.

      Chapter 3

      Kinsey was almost glad when darkness settled around the two of them. The rhythmic rumble of the two remaining engines soothed her—number three was running hot, and unable to find the source of the problem, she’d shut it down. The familiar salt and seaweed scent of the ocean was strong tonight. Everything about the night was magnified by the man’s brooding presence beside her. Or maybe it was just her reaction to him heightening her senses to a near painful pitch. She registered his slightest movement, even a change in the depth of his breathing, every blink of his eyes, every shift in his wary gaze.

      The black sky and blacker sea merged into a single great expanse, a beast that had swallowed them whole. Normally, she loved this magnificent solitude. But tonight her soul was turbulent, disturbed by the leashed energy of the stranger beside her.

      Reluctantly, she turned on the instrument back lighting. Its red glow intruded into the sensual mystery of the dark, breaking the spell.

      “Head for the nearest inhabited island at our best forward speed.”

      He was back to orders and demands, this hard man. Nothing compromising or yielding about him.

      She scanned the horizon and made out a faint black hump in the distance, a few lights twinkling along its spine. “There’s the north coast of St. Thomas now,” she replied.

      “Find us somewhere to put ashore where we can hide this garish boat. Whatever possessed your father to paint it peppermint-pink, anyway?”

      Kinsey rolled her eyes. “The trophy wife.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “My father traded in my mother when she hit fifty for a new model. Giselle is twenty-eight now.”

      “Isn’t that about how old you are?”

      “Yeah. How creepy is that? But hey, she’s gotten three Vogue covers and looks great on television.”

      Mitch sounded almost bitter when he commented, “I learned a long time ago not to put any stock in a woman’s looks.”

      Wow. Definite raw nerve there. She changed the subject quickly. “If you want to hide this monster, we’ll need to get her under a roof. There’s a big marina near Frenchtown with some covered slips, but it’s right by where the cruise ships come in. People crawl all over that area. Maybe something private…” She ran through the list of who she knew on the island. “I’ve got it. A sorority sister of mine and her husband have a place in Magen’s Bay. And I think they have a boathouse.”

      A cynical look passed across his features. “Of course they do.”

      What was his problem? She shrugged and pointed the Baby Doll toward Magen’s Bay. Only about half the estates lining its very exclusive, very private shores were lit tonight. Summer wasn’t prime season for Caribbean vacation homes. She had a little trouble finding the right mansion, but eventually СКАЧАТЬ